Withdrawal
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: John goes away for 5 days and Sherlock has some separation issues.  PWP. Rated very M.
1. Day 1

A/N – This is a giant PWP, so don't expect deep meaningful character development stuff. Thanks to ScopesMonkey for doing the beta work and for the leading me to the title, any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Warning – Lots of dirty bits coming in the following chapters.

Disclaimer – If I owned them I wouldn't be painting my bathroom by myself.

Day 1

1.

I am sitting on the edge of the bed listening to the sounds of John moving about the flat. I can feel the weight of the suitcase as it sits on John's side of the mattress. He's double checked it to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. I glance over at him as he walks back into the room. He tosses his toiletry kit in and starts to zip the case closed. I turn away, looking at the floor.

I lived without John Watson for over thirty years and now the prospect of him going away for five days makes my chest hurt. It's ridiculous and embarrassing.

He rests his hand on my head and his nails scrape across the base of my skull. It's one of my favourite sensations and he knows it. My eyes close as his fingers trace behind my ear before pulling on my earlobe.

"You can come with me," he says, not for the first time. "I know that it's last minute, but we can splurge on a ticket."

"My return to Las Vegas was strongly discouraged. Not Las Vegas specifically, I can return to the city. However, I am not welcome in any of the hotels, restaurants, or casinos. I believe it will seriously dampen the wedding festivities if we are sleeping in an automobile in the desert."

"I'll be sleeping in a luxury hotel suite - if you're in the desert that's entirely up to you." I can hear the smile in my still-new husband's voice. I know that he will lean down and place a kiss on my head just before he does so. "You've never told me that story. I want to hear it when I get back."

"You won't like it." That is an understatement. "You'll be upset."

"I can hardly get upset with you for something that happened before I knew you." Interesting that he thinks so, I'm fairly certain that he would, indeed, be angry. That was by no means my finest hour.

"You are rarely that logical, John. I'd rather not test that notion."

He kisses my head again. "If you say so." His hand settles on the back of my neck. He massages the muscles there, digging his fingers in just past the point of being comfortable. It is another of my favourite sensations.

"You could not go. Las Vegas is distasteful, John. You aren't going to like it. You can just stay here with me. You haven't even seen this man in…"

"Five years. I know. But we email all the time, you know that. He's a good mate and I'm honoured he included me." I nod, I do know all of this. Alan Turner seems like a decent man. He is Harvard educated and is marrying a Stanford educated woman, both doctors. They are perfectly respectable people - how boring. It's only natural that John would want to share in their happiness. John is sentimental that way.

"It's only five days," he says again.

Five days alone in our bed. Five days with no one to talk to. Five days with no John. I haven't gone more than two nights without John since we became involved, and that was for a case. I am not anxious to do so now, especially as he's going to be in a different country, thousands of miles away.

I already miss him and he hasn't even left yet. I'm aching for him. It's just uncalled for.

I reach up and wind my arms around his waist. He moves close and I bury my face into his stomach. He wraps his arms around my head.

"I'm going to miss you, too," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. I nod, glad he knows it without me having to say it. It's important to me that he knows.

We stay like that for a long moment before I take a deep breath and release him. He has to go, I know that. I let out a long sigh.

"I'll call you when I get there." He moves to the bed and grabs his coat. I stand and watch him as he puts it on. He looks awake and alert and that is out of place at this early hour. I don't like it. I don't like any of it. He grabs his suitcase and his carry-on and he follows me out of the room and down the stairs.

I open the door for him. He stands in front of me and stretches up to give me a kiss. His tongue brushes across my lips before he pulls back. He smiles at me before he turns and heads out the door. I listen to his footsteps on the stairs and then the front door opening and closing. I move quickly to the window and watch as John puts his bags into the cab. He looks up at me and smiles again. I feel the warmth settle in my chest that always comes with that smile. My smile.

He gets in the cab and I watch as it drives off.

I am alone.

His flight leaves Heathrow at 7:55, lands in Chicago at 10:10, leaves Chicago 11:55, lands in Las Vegas 13:46. Five days and counting.

I walk back into the bedroom, pulling my shirt over my head and dropping it onto the floor. John won't be back for five days so there is no need for me to pick it up right away. I used to leave clothes on the floor all the time before John.

I did lots of things differently before John.

The t-shirt John slept in is sitting on top in the basket. I pull it out and pull it on. John wore this shirt while we had sex last night. It smells like him and me and sex. It's powerful and delightful. I climb back into bed and bury my face into John's pillow. I take a deep breath and hold it. I feel surrounded by John.

I close my eyes and drift off.

2.

I'm fairly certain that John has made me stupider. He's made me stupider and manages to fill the intellectual holes with his presence. Now that he's gone I'm an absolute idiot.

It was three in the afternoon when I woke up. I glanced at the clock and experienced an overwhelming moment of panic. I hadn't heard from John. I was certain that I should have heard of him.

I was actually in the process of searching for plane crashes before I remembered the time difference.

As I said, idiot.

Obviously this relationship is deteriorating my mental capacity.

And I miss him so much. When I think about John it actually hurts me, my chest gets tight and it's hard to breathe. Five days is forever.

I get up and move to the living room. The skull is looking at me, judging, laughing. I turn him towards the wall. He's less annoying that way. I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. I'd agreed to eat at least one container of food a day. I grab the first one and open it. It's an odd looking pasta dish, but John wouldn't have left it for me if he wasn't certain that I would like it.

It should probably be eaten warm though so I put it in the microwave.

I leave it in there for two minutes, which is apparently too long because I burn my thumb trying to grab it. I suck on the wounded digit before I hear John's voice chastising me in my head. I move towards the sink and the cold water, but reject it. He's not here, he doesn't get to tell me what to do. I grab a towel and use it to pick up my dish before heading back into the living room.

I set the food on the coffee table so that it can continue to cool. I don't wish to burn myself further. I turn the telly on and start to move through the channels. I settle on one of those ridiculous James Bond movies that John enjoys so much. They are trite and predictable but brainless entertainment seems fitting currently.

I settle into watch it, not bothering to criticise it because John isn't here to be annoyed with me. What's the point?

I'm completely distracted by it until the Bond character and the redheaded woman end up in Las Vegas. I see some of the recognisable buildings and have to change the channel. John is going there and it is so far away. I flip up one and settle on something I cannot identify. There are cars driving around.

I glance at my food sitting on the table and reach for it. It's at room temperature now and I debate heating it again. I decide against it. It's good, very good actually. I should not have doubted John on this; he would not lead me astray. Eating is too important to him for that.

I miss him. The cars driving around are stupid and boring. They aren't even running into each other.

I set the container back on the table. There's no need to take it to the kitchen. John won't be home for five days. I can grow things in it until then. I can study the bacteria that make the container home. It will be interesting.

John doesn't like it when I grow things on the food containers. He insists it is unhealthy. But he isn't here to prevent it. He shouldn't have gone away.

And the cars driving around are still stupid.

I'm going to take a shower.

I carefully pull John's shirt off and set it on the bed. It still smells passable so I'll wear it again tonight. No point in getting another of my shirts dirty, that's just more laundry for John. I know he'd rather not come home to a whole basket full.

I turn the water up to a higher temperature than I normally use; John likes it this way, but always settles for the cooler water when he showers with me. Always compromising. Always John.

The hot water stings but I don't adjust it. It feels good as all of my muscles relax because of the temperature and the steam. Perhaps John is onto something here. I grab John's shampoo and wash my hair with it. It smells like him and I want to smell like him.

It makes my chest ache a little more, but I feel good, too. I use his soap to wash and then stand there until the water runs cold. John likes to take long showers. I only see the appeal if John is in here with me.

I open the curtain and grab John's towel. He used it this morning before he left. I can still smell him on it as I wipe it across my face. It smells so good.

I drop the towel on the floor as I leave the bathroom. Towels on the floor are one of John's pet peeves, but by the time he gets home the towels are going to need to be washed again. How long can they sit on the floor before they acquire that sour smell? I might as well find out.

Besides, I used to keep towels on the floor all the time before John. I don't like hanging up towels. It takes time and the bar can be difficult to navigate.

I walk into the bedroom and grab John's shirt and pull it over my head. I still smell like him, that's nice.

3.

It's 10:42 pm when John calls me. I almost don't answer it because I am currently angry at him. I can't believe that he did this to me, that he left me here by myself. But he won't know that I am angry if I don't answer the phone . What's the point of being angry if John doesn't know it?

"Hello," I snap at him.

"Hey," he replies, not bothering to acknowledge that I am angry. His voice is calm and far away. I miss him, my chest hurts. "I just got to the hotel, the rooms they are putting us up in are huge." He pauses. "I wish you were here to see it." John's voice doesn't waver. If his chest is hurting too he's covering it up very well. He's better at things like this than I am.

I still don't say anything. I just listen to the John noises as they come through the phone. His breathing is even and normal. He's walking around as we talk, probably unpacking what he brought. I can hear the slight alteration in the echo as he enters the bathroom. John sounds different surrounded by the tiles.

"What did you do today?" he asks after a moment, I can see him as he sits down, waiting for my reply. He's tired, probably from boredom. John likes to sleep on planes. I have no doubt that he did so on the flights today.

"I watched some telly, ate one of my required meals."

"Good." John is pleased that I ate. I knew he would be. "Did you call Lestrade to get the cold case files? He mentioned that he'd pull some for you."

_No, _I think. "Not yet," I reply. He won't be happy that I didn't do this. He worries about me when I get bored. I'm not exactly bored. "I worked on an experiment instead." I look at the container sitting on the coffee table and think of the towel sitting on the floor in the bathroom. It isn't precisely a lie.

"Did you learn anything from it?" he asks, he always shows interest in my experiments. It is one of the many areas where John is truly unique. He is genuinely interested in what I do.

"It is still ongoing," I reply. "I should have a definitive answer by the time you return. And before you ask, no there are no acids involved."

"Glad to hear that." He lets out a little chuckle, "Call Lestrade tomorrow if you get the chance. Well, I just wanted to let you know I arrived safe." I'd known that already. I'd monitored his flight status continually on the airlines website and kept a constant search for airplane crashes. There hadn't been one. "I'm going to try and grab a quick nap before Stag Night Take 1."

The idea seems ridiculous to me. Grown men running around a city devoted to vices, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, looking at naked women, gambling away funds and all of it to celebrate the termination of one's status as an unmarried individual. I'm glad John did not feel compelled to have one of these celebrations before we were married.

"Where are you going?" I ask because I think it's required of me.

He sighs, he's tired. "Dinner, drinks, and some club that Alan knows. Apparently, it is some sports establishment, so you don't have to worry about me running off with a stripper." Well, I hadn't given that any thought at all until he'd said something. I add that to my list of concerns. I know that John will never cheat on me. However, a part of me is always concerned that John might decide that life with me is too complicated. It is an irrational fear, but one that I can never completely dismiss. "Apparently there are some basketball championship thing going on in the States right now, I think Alan called it March Madness. I think I'd rather watch the naked women."

"All things considered, I think I prefer you to watch basketball." He laughs at that. It's an amazing sound and I miss it.

"Of course you would. I'll talk to you later. I love you."

I feel the warmth that those words always bring. When we first became involved I expected that I'd find the continuous repetition of them tiresome. Nothing could be further from the truth. I love hearing them every time. I also love saying them.

"I love you, too." I say. The warmth helps curb the ache as John rings off.


	2. Day 2

A/N – More gratitude to dearest ScopesMonkey! And this is the beginning of, and probably mildest of, the dirty bits. So it's M from here on out boys and girls!

Day 2

1

At around three am I discover John Wayne. I've heard of him, of course, but am certain that I've never seen one of his movies before. I don't believe that I am lacking for this - the cinematic quality of the picture is far from stellar. In fact, the plot is so tiresome that I have stopped following it. The speech patterns are fascinating, however. He emphasises the incorrect syllables in each word and the incorrect words in each sentence. He gestures out of time with his words. It is fascinating to watch. Alarming, but fascinating.

So fascinating in fact, that when my phone rings I let it go to voicemail twice before I finally answer it.

It is Lestrade.

"I've got a case that I think will interest you." I doubt that, but continue to listen. I glance at the clock and see that it is now approaching four in the morning. Odd that Lestrade has a case at this hour.

The victim was found in his safe room, shot in the head but with no evidence of a weapon and with the room locked from the inside.

"Windows," I say even though I know that Lestrade would have thought of that. He isn't as stupid as I like to think he is.

"No windows," Lestrade says. "The door is the only exit." I grab the remote and turn the television off. I make a note to further investigate John Wayne at a later date.

"Address," I demand as I stand. I head towards the bedroom to change.

2.

I'm standing in Lestrade's office when my phone rings again. I pull it out of my pocket and see John's name and note the time.

It's five minutes before noon, that means that it is five minutes before four in the morning in Las Vegas. John is almost never up at four am. And if he is it is never for a good reason. Well, almost never.

I hold up a finger to silence Lestrade and then exit his office; I don't want my conversation with John to be overheard.

"What's wrong?" I ask instead of the typical pleasantry. I'm alarmed to hear my husband start to giggle on the other end of the line.

"Nothing," he says. His voice is slightly slurred and he's unable to stop laughing. He's drunk. I don't like that. The only time I've ever seen John intoxicated was after we had a serious argument during a disturbing case. John's behaviour during that case had terrified me. I don't like to be reminded of it.

"John?" I ask. I enter the stairwell door next to the lifts; this should at least grant me a modicum of privacy. I sit on the step and listen as he laughs some more, gasping for air. I have no idea what he finds so hilarious. I listen to the laughter a few more minutes before it finally starts to taper off.

"I miss you, Sherlock. Do you miss me?" I roll my eyes. Alcohol induced sentimentality is tedious.

"Of course I miss you." I reply, but am surprised that it isn't as pronounced as it was earlier. I still feel vacant inside, but the case has helped distract me. "Are you in your room, John? I think you need to sleep."

"Yep," he says. "I thinks I'm drunk." I roll my eyes again. _Thinks_?

"Why don't you get some sleep? You'll feel better. Have some water first. You need some water."

"I was trying to…"he says. I can picture his brow furrowing. He's thinking about something. "Wait? Where - no that's wrong. Were. Were you sleeping?"

"No," I answer. "It's afternoon here."

He starts to laugh again, and after a second he's laughing so hard that he's wheezing. I can picture him bent over, one hand covering his face. Seeing John laugh like that is one of my favourite sights. I wish I could see it now.

"I forgotted about the time change," he chuckles.

"Yes, I figured that out. I'm going to have to go, John, I'm wrapping up a case."

The giggling stops immediately, his voice is alarmed and serious as he speaks. "A case? Are you okay? Get my gun, it's… I don't know where it is but get it. Be careful, promise me you'll be… what's that noise?"

I run my hand over my face. This conversation is tiresome. "What noise?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Oh," his voice is different again, drunkenly curious maybe. "I don't know, nevers mind. Promise me you'll be safe."

"I've already solved the case, I'm suffering through the paper work with Lestrade."

"Tell him I said Hi. Hi Lestrade! How's his wife, she had the flu?"

I roll my eyes again. "I'm alone right now, John, but I will pass your rather inebriated greeting and your enquiry on when I go back to Lestrade's office."

"You're alone?" he asks. I sigh. I did just say that.

"Yes, I'm in the stairwell."

"Good," he says and this voice is different yet again. Drunkenness and the distance is making it difficult for me to keep up with my husband. I dislike that. "I have an erection, Sherlock."

I straighten. "What?" I ask, certain that I have heard wrong.

"Will you talk to me, Sherlock?"

"What?" I repeat, mentally chastising myself for it. I hate repeating myself.

"I'm touching myself, Sherlock, talk to me. Please." I hear the slight alteration in John's voice. It is too familiar and I feel my muscles wanting to react to it. Reacting to John is a fundamental part of my nature. Not now though, not here.

"This is ridiculous," I say. It is. I can't do this. Phone sex, how absurd. Phone sex while I sit in a stairwell at Scotland Yard, horrifying.

"Please?" The request shoots right though my body. It is warm and it makes me ache. He's so far away. "Talk, please."

"What do you want me to say?" I've apparently lost my mind. I glance up at the picture hanging on the wall in front of me. It's an anti-drugs poster with a hideous looking woman on it. She's missing most of her teeth. Clearly this is anti-methamphetamine.

I listen to John's breathing, it's faster, harder. He's masturbating. I'm sitting in a stairwell at Scotland Yard and listening to my husband masturbate. I can see it clearly, I've watched John get himself off too many times to count. I know every move, every touch.

I resist the urge to close my eyes, I focus on the poster instead.

This is ridiculous.

"Are you close John?" I ask, knowing that he must be. "Tell me, are you close?"

"Yessss," he hisses out. His breath is barely above a whisper. "Please?"

I understand he's asking me to keep talking. I have no idea what to say, I have no idea what he needs to hear. "Come on, John."

I take the phone away from my ear. The stairwell is quiet. I can't hear the noise outside of the door, so it stands to reason they can't hear me. I will hear any door open or close around me. I'm safe, for now.

"Come on, John. Use your thumb." He grunts and I know that he has dragged his thumb over the head. John is very sensitive to touch just before and just after.

"Oh God," John says and I know he's frantic now, so close. He takes a deep breath and holds it, I can see his face taking on the slight red tint.

"Breathe," I say and the air gasps out of him. He takes another deep one and holds it.

I focus on the anti-drugs poster again. The woman in the poster is missing a large percentage of her teeth. Her eyes are not symmetrical with the left one several millimetres lower than the right. Her nose has an awkward bend to the left, clearly it has been broken, probably more than once. Her hair looks like the hair of someone who is seriously malnourished. She is in no way aesthetically pleasing.

"Oh God," John says and follows it with a drawn out "yesssss." He lets out another quiet gasp and he's coming. I can picture him, feet planted on the mattress, head and shoulders off the bed as his body folds in on itself. He's just stroking the shaft now, the head too sensitive to touch directly. He'll do this until his last stroke where he'll drive his thumb under the head, shivering as his body protests.

"Ungh," comes out of him and I know that he's let go. He's collapsed back onto the bed and I can hear him gasping for breath. I try and keep my attention on the poster and not on the glorious post-coital noises that my husband makes. The blood flow to my groin has increased, but I do not have a full erection. I'm thankful for that because I left my coat in Lestrade's office. It would be a very awkward walk back.

"Are you all right?" I ask him, knowing that he is fine. He's intoxicated though, so I wish to be certain.

He chuckles, straightening out even further. "Brilliant," he says and I can hear the huge grin on his face. I smile despite myself and my general embarrassment.

"Get some sleep, John." I pause before adding: "I love you."

"I love you, too," he replies. The words always come out of him so easily and so sincerely. They make me warm inside every time. I suddenly miss him so much that I ache again.

John rings off and I stand. I look down my body and determine that partial erection isn't noticeable. It will subside. I take a deep breath and head out of the door and back to my paperwork.


	3. Day 3

Warnings - Rated M, ya'll.

Day 3

I glance at the clock for the seventeenth time in the last 39 minutes. It's 12:05 am. I've been doing this for over two hours with no result. It is not yet alarming, but it is close to being so.

I put some more of the lubricating gel on my fingers and begin to pull on myself again. John and I have had several encounters that have lasted longer than this, but not many. I dance my fingers up the underside but notice no significant change. It has never been difficult before.

I blame John for this. If he had not insisted on that ridiculous encounter this afternoon I would not be lying here at all.

John. I let my thoughts turn to him again. I breathe in the cinnamon scent of the lube - it's my favourite scent on John. I think about him in that far off hotel room and all the glorious noises that he makes. I bring my left hand up and mimic John's usual actions. Instead of pushing my foreskin up and over, I form my fingers into a loose fist. I brush it over myself. I focus on the head, particularly the underside. I feel the familiar pleasantness forming in my stomach, but just as in the previous attempts this evening it plateaus out, leaving me still unsatisfied.

I groan, letting my hand drop away. I lift my head and stare down at the erection. I'd tried to ignore it about an hour ago but it refused to go away. This task is becoming tedious. I don't have this problem when John is here.

I'd researched priapism earlier and discovered that four hours seems to be some kind of marker. I am not there yet, but am becoming concerned that I might be. It would be horrifying if I have to go to the A&E for this.

My phone rings and I glare at it. The light is bright in the fairly dark room but I can still make out John's picture on the screen. My desire to answer to phone during this speaks volumes to just how badly it is going. I sigh and wipe my lubed fingers on the sheet before I reach and grab the phone.

"What?" I say in place of hello. I'm annoyed with my husband at the moment and want him to know it.

"Sherlock?" he asks with the hint of concern in his voice. It makes me feel guilty and that makes me more annoyed.

"Yes," I say. "I'm in the middle of some…" I look back down at my unwavering erection. "Never mind. How are you?"

John's voice is hesitant, he's confused about what is going on. Not surprising - so am I. "Good," he replies. "I, um, well, I um, just wanted to apologise for earlier. I shouldn't have had that much to drink and I certainly shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry if it was embarrassing…"

He's ashamed and it almost makes me smile. I look back at my erection and have the urge to laugh. I suppress it. "It is of no concern. I was in a location where we would not be overheard."

I reach down again placing my hand onto to my pelvis just above my cock. It is a touch John often uses on me and it feels very good. I press down feeling the coarse hairs until I feel the bone. "I would not have allowed you to continue if I was not in a private location." It is true. I wouldn't allow John to embarrass himself, or me, in front of others.

"I figured as much," he says, but he still sounds ashamed. It is somewhat surprising as we have a very active sex life and he has never shown any hesitation before. Granted, over the phone was not an ideal arrangement, but it in retrospect it was not as horrifying as it could have been.

"I have a more pressing issue to discuss with you," I say as I run my fingers up and over my shaft again. It still feels good, but wrong, not like normal. "At what point exactly does the inability to ejaculate become cause for concern?" I ask, tracing my finger around the head. I have released a minute amount during this whole session. Can one become clogged, like a drain?

"What?" John says, not following. Sometimes his inability to keep up is truly alarming. "Do you mean that…"

"I have been attempting to masturbate for approximately two hours and 41 minutes with no success. When I tried to cease the activity, the erection did not subside. Should I call an ambulance or go to the A&E?"

John is quiet for a moment before he lets out a disbelieving chuckle. He's shaking his head and probably wiping his hand across his face. "Does it hurt anywhere? Outside to touch or inside either in you penis or testicles or in your lower abdomen?"

"No," I respond truthfully but I do a quick physical inspection to verify.

"Have you taken any medication today?"

"No." Obviously I would have thought of that.

"How long have you been focused on the fact that it's different or wondered if it is priapism?"

"Certainly that isn't relevant?"

"Of course it is," John says, "You are an incredibly intelligent person, as you so often point out. Your brain is very powerful and quite capable of manipulating that wonderful body of yours. I don't think you need to go to hospital, I think you need to relax."

I groan out in disbelief. I'm unhappy with this answer and the entire situation. "If you hadn't insisted on going to this wedding then you would be here to take care of this and I wouldn't end up at the A&E in the middle of the night where they are going to do unspeakable things to my cock with needles."

"Relax, Sherlock." His voice is commanding, yet calm on the other end of the line. "Are you in bed?"

"Of course I'm in bed, where else would I be?"

"Naturally. Okay, if you're still touching yourself, stop." I pull my hand away and set it on the bed next to me. "Which lube are you using?"

"The cinnamon." That should be obvious. It's my favourite.

"Well that's part of your problem. That's the one that you use on me. This isn't about me, it's about you. Clean yourself up and get one of the other ones. One that I use on you, like the orange."

I snag one of the wipes that we keep on the bedside table for cleanup purposes. I wipe myself off and grab the orange lubricant out of the drawer. I toss the wipe onto the floor; John can clean it up when he gets home.

"I doubt this will make any difference," I say as I open the tube.

"Trust me," he says as the smell of oranges enters my nostrils. I close my eyes and enjoy the aroma. The first time he used the orange one I was tied up. He'd rubbed over my entire body with the gel, massaging all of my muscles and bringing me right to the edge before easing off and starting the whole process again. I'd enjoyed that a great deal.

"Close your eyes and slick yourself up," John says. I obey him; under normal circumstances I make it a point not to let him get his way too often, but I think he might be correct here. I won't vocalise that though. "Do your balls too," he adds. "Then stop and move your hand away.

"Set the lube aside. I want you to keep your eyes closed but move your lubed finger up to your chest. I want you to circle you left nipple, only your left nipple." He picked the left one because my right nipple is more sensitive. Even my touching the left one makes it ache. "Keep circling it until it's hard."

"It's hard," I say, brushing the edges of the nub.

"Good," he says, "Pinch it on the sides. You like it better on the sides." The added pressure shoots through my chest and right to my groin. I grunt, surprising myself. I can feel my cock start to bob, wanting to be touched again.

"Stop now." I do. "Set your hands on your stomach and relax." I barely touch the skin as I settle my hands and I feel goose bumps all over my arms. "I want you to tell me the sexiest thing you've ever seen. Ever."

"Why?" I ask, surprised by the request. Although the answer is easy enough to come up with.

"Trust me," he says. I don't know how not to do that.

"You," I answer. His soft hazel eyes, that light up when he smiles. He has an easy laugh that makes happiness well inside of me. I love John's laugh. I like the sound he makes when he orgasms more, but the laughing is a close second.

John when he orgasms. I can feel the muscles in my ass start to tighten at the image. He makes the most enticing sounds.

"Tell me," John says. "Tell me your favourite."

A flood of images flow through my mind. There are countless images and scenes and they flow by so quickly. I can't focus on one. I can't pick one.

But I can. It's as clear in my mind as anything.

I spent all day at Bart's and got home after John. It was summer and it was hot and I climbed the steps to find John in our bed. The fan was on, cooling the room marginally. He was lying on his stomach, sheet pulled over him. He was propped up on his elbows, reading. I could tell immediately that he was naked under the sheet. He wasn't wearing a shirt and there was a slight sheen of sweet on the muscles of his back. The sheet was sticking to his legs, defining the appealing curves at the back of his knees and the arc of the Achilles tendons as his feet stretch out behind him.

The stirring in my groin started as my eyes focused on his ass. The sheet was sticking to him to there, too. The muscles were clearly defined, the sheet settling in between the cheeks.

That sexy, inviting ass. My mouth had gone dry.

He had done nothing to acknowledge my presence, but in one fluid motion had pushed that wonderful ass into the air and wiggled it at me. I'd practically collapsed onto the bed.

I tell this to John, I tell him all of it. I let out a little moan when I get to the end, remembering it so vividly.

My eyes are still closed but I can feel the hot liquid as it drips out of me landing on my stomach. God I want to touch myself. I reach a hand down, ready.

"Not yet," John says and my fingers tighten in protest. I stop moving though.

"Do you remember the first time we did it in the shower?" I groan, of course I do. My fist starts to open and close. Of course I remember it. It was the afternoon after our first time. We'd spent all night and all day in bed already. The water had been hot, so hot. John likes it so much hotter than I do.

"That's my favourite. You were pressed against the wall and my chest was pressed into your back. Your ass was rubbing up and down against me. God it was excruciating. It wasn't enough to make me come, but it felt so good." I groan again. I remember. I remember his face buried between my shoulder blades. His quiet gasps puffing against my back.

"I reached around you and played with your balls. Do you remember that? I want you to do that now, Sherlock. I want you to touch your balls the way I do. Just your balls. Just the right one."

For the first time I notice the change of timbre in his voice. He's aroused, too. That realisation tightens the muscles around my spine. I arch up involuntarily, before moving my hand down to do as instructed.

"Squeeze it like I do. You know how I do it, don't you?" I nod even though he can't see me. I hold the right sack and rub my thumb down it. It's more pressure than I would normally use on myself, but I am able to match John's touch almost exactly and all the muscles on my lower back constrict.

"Oh God." I hear the words come out of my mouth, surprising me. I shudder, this is just how John does it when he teases me. I bring my thumb up and repeat the stroke again.

"Is it still slick from the lube?" I nod again and move to the left one. It feels good, but not as good. John knew, I shouldn't have questioned him. I grab the right one again and press my thumb down.

Another burst of hot liquid hits my abs and I arch up into the contact.

"I'm going to get myself off now, Sherlock. Is that okay with you? I just pulled my trousers down and I'm lying naked on the bed. I have to be at dinner in about half an hour but I'm going to stay here and get off with you if that's okay. Is it okay?"

"Oh God," I hear myself say again. I brush my thumb against the base of my cock. I can picture John so clearly. He's grazing his fingers up his erection, that beautiful erection - he's waiting for my permission.

"Okay," I manage to get out as I grab myself. I'm slick from the lube and I smell like oranges. It's a sex smell, but a John pleasuring me sex smell. Of course it's the one I should have picked at the beginning. I was an idiot.

I plant my feet on the bed and spread my knees. My hips begin a slow thrusting motion, moving up to meet my hand. I hear a gasp on the other end of the phone, momentarily amazed that I've managed to keep it next to my ear. It's a John sex noise, one of my favourite noises. I groan in response to it. It makes my cock twitch in my fingers.

John's breath quivers. It's a sign that he's become sensitive and he's dragging his thumb over the head. He's close, very close.

I add the twist at the end that is guaranteed to put me over. I'd been completely unaware of this action until I met John. He pointed it out to me and he uses it as an indicator that I'm close. It's a good indicator because I am.

"Ungh," John says. I can see him, just as I saw him when I talk to him earlier. He's pushing the thumb into the base of the head. He's shaking. He's going to come now.

"Oh shit," I say as I realise I'm coming, too. I feel the liquid as it splashes onto my thumb. I pull faster and harder, pressing my head into the pillow and arching off the bed.

"Sherlock, that's it, oh god." In a flash I see John folding in on himself, his face contorted into a mix of pleasure and pain.

I pull one more time and feel the last trailing of the hot liquid. I release myself and collapse back onto the bed. I know John has done the same.

We are quiet for a long time, our breathing returning to normal. I bring my hand up and lick my index finger. I taste like me and orange.

"You're right. I do taste better with the orange."

John groans and then lets out a satiated chuckle. "You don't have to tell me that. I like you best with the passion fruit. God it's amazing. You should save that for me though."

I laugh in response. "Naturally," I say, making a note to taste next time we use that one. I'm curious now.

"I should go," he says and it hurts me. He isn't moving though so I know that he doesn't really want to. He misses me, too.

He sighs and repeats himself. "I need to go."

I grab a wipe and begin cleaning myself up. "How many days left?" I want to know that he's keeping track as well.

He sighs and I know he's thinking, comparing his time to mine. "I have three whole days and the rest of today. But for you," he says, "since it's after midnight there, you can say I'll be home the day after tomorrow."

"The day after tomorrow," I say and it does sound better than three. I sigh. _The day after tomorrow. _

I toss the second wipe onto the floor.

"I love you," he says and I smile.

"I love you, too," I reply. I roll over, burying my face into his pillow. It smells like him. I miss him.

I open my photo gallery. I pick one of my favourite pictures of John and stare at it. I miss him. I stare at it until I feel my eyes closing.

_The day after tomorrow. _

2.

I woke up this morning to a cloudy and dark sky. I had the initial feeling of euphoria that sex brings, but it became hollow as soon as I remembered that my husband was so far way.

I didn't bother to dress as I went into the kitchen and now I'm in the process of adding a third container to my bacteria experiment. Although it appears that experiment is not going well. The first two containers have dried out and are crusty. There is not enough moisture for mould or anything else to grow. I sigh, disappointed at my lack of insight on this. I secure the lid back on the third container and set it next to the other two. Perhaps with the lid it will contain the moisture enough to grow something.

I turn the television on and settle on Geordie Shore. John is not here to criticise my choice. He hates this show and claims that it actually kills brain cells. I find it an odd representation of contemporary society. Plus it is so ridiculous that it is humourous.

During one of the commercials - I can't see that Aldi one again or I might be forced to break the telly - I stand and head to the bedroom. I consider the shirt of John's that I've worn for two days, but the scent is unpleasant. I toss it back onto the floor and head to the basket where we keep the dirty clothes. John's clothes are still on top because I have added nothing to the basket. I pull out a pair of pyjama bottoms and put them on. They are one of the pairs that are entirely too long on John so lengthwise they fit me perfectly. However they are slightly uncomfortable in the waist, but I will not be able to sleep in them. I find one of the undershirts that he wore during the week and pull that on as well. I'm surrounded, momentarily, by the scent of John and it's instantly calming.

I miss him. I wonder if it would be easier if I didn't speak to him while he was away, but the idea of that is repulsive. I can't imagine not speaking to him every day; it's horrible enough not seeing him.

I take the blanket off our bed and head back into the living room.

Still on commercial. Annoying.

I settle in John's chair and wrap the blanket around me. I'm not particularly cold, but it smells like John and orange and makes me feel warm inside.

I groan as the Aldi commercial comes back on and direct my attention away from the TV. The room is a mess, I have not bothered to pick anything up since John left. There are random mugs of tea, glasses of water, a tin of the peanuts I ate yesterday a few of which fell to the floor. I frown at them, John would be annoyed if he saw them.

John isn't here.

I turn back to the television and my eyes settle on a picture of us sitting on the mantle. It was taken on my last birthday. Harry took us to dinner and had pulled her camera out to take a picture. I'd been reluctant and in the process of protesting when John wrapped his arm around my shoulder and placed a kiss against my cheek. Harry snapped the picture and printed a copy for me the next day. I've always been surprised by how happy I look in the captured moment. It's rarely a look I see when I examine myself in the mirror. When I'd pointed this out to John he'd laughed at me.

"Funny, I see it all the time." I'd been surprised to see that he was being truthful with me. I get up and grab the picture. I set it up on the table next to me so that it's closer.

I sigh as I curl up again and turn my attention back to the telly.

I'd memorised the itinerary for John's trip before he'd left. There had been no set plans scheduled for the first two days of the trip, but starting today the wedding activities begin. I glance at the clock and realise that it's almost nine am in Las Vegas. John has probably slept late, might even just be getting up. There is a wedding brunch on the agenda and then they are going to the final fittings for the wedding attire.

John went to my tailor to get measured so as long as the suit was made to the specifications it should be perfect. He'd had no details about it though and I am positive that if he wears one of those pale blue things with the fuzzy shirt underneath that he will have to cease being my husband.

Some things are completely intolerable.

I grab the remote and change the channel. Jeremy Kyle is on.

3.

I use John's soaps again in the shower. It makes the whole bathroom smell like him. I breathe in the wonderful aroma and savour the hot water. It's invigorating. The day after tomorrow. He'll be home the day after tomorrow. It seems more hopeful now, closer than it did earlier.

I get out of the shower when the water runs cold. I drop the towel onto the floor in the hallway. I grab a pair of my own pyjamas and pull one of John's shirts out of the drawer. There aren't any others in the basket.

I pick up my phone and see the light flashing letting me know that I have a message. I sit back on the in the chair and pull the blanket around me. I open the text message.

It's a picture message. A picture of my husband. He's holding his left hand up, taking a picture of himself in the mirror. I can see images of the Las Vegas strip behind him. Las Vegas looks odd in the daylight.

He's in his new suit. It's white, which I never would have suggested for him. I generally find the idea of white suits horrifying. However, on John it works. I may be biased in this regard but he does look very attractive. The shirt is navy and, even in the picture, John's hazel eyes shine complimented by the blue. He's got that typical easy smile on his face. It's a fundamental part of John's physical appearance.

The jacket is very fitted and unbuttoned. The first few buttons of the dark shirt are open and I can clearly see the little hollow between John's collar bones and the outline of his Adam's apple. The pants sit low on his hips and the shirt is tucked in, making John look longer, taller. I have no complaints about John's stature. He fits against me perfectly like a puzzle piece. I wouldn't wish him taller, but looking taller is a very appealing. He is already very lean, but this makes him look even leaner.

My mouth is dry and I smack my lips. I can see the rest of the wedding party reflected in the window, none of them are as appealing to look at as John.

"Approve?" asks the message at the bottom of the photo.

I let out a little chuckle, "Of pictures of my husband? Of course. The suit is nice, but naturally I'd prefer you without it. - SH"

I save the photo to my permanent collection and will store it on my laptop later. I'll probably print a physical copy. I'm examining it again when my phone alerts me to his reply.

"Do you think about anything else? I called Lestrade, he's going to bring you some case files. Get dressed. Day after tomorrow. Off to the casino now. I love you."

I read it a few times, running my finger over the screen before I reply. "Not really. All right. No, it's just Lestrade. I'm well aware. Have fun, be safe. I love you, too. – SH"

If Lestrade is coming over I really should put on some trousers at least. Jeans perhaps, John always likes it when I wear jeans. Maybe I'll take a photo of myself in them. That will frustrate him.

I'm walking up the stairs when he sends his final message. "Will do, you too."

I'm climbing up the stairs in our flat, and he's on his way to the casino to lose some of our - well granted it's mostly his - money. I toss my phone on to the bed and push my pyjama bottoms down. I kick them out of the bedroom and into the hall before moving to the closet to grab my jeans.

4.

It's dark when Lestrade rings the bell. I've just made tea and left the milk on the coffee table with the food containers experiment. I'm curious as to how long it will take the milk to spoil.

Lestrade examines the living room as he walks in. He turns his head and glances at the trousers that are draped over the banister. He raises his eyebrow but says nothing.

"I've brought five. I figured that will keep you occupied for 48 hours. It looks like it isn't necessary though. I think it'll take you that long to clean this up."

I look at him, confused. "I don't clean, John does."

He chuckles as I open the first file. It's a 12-year-old unsolved murder. A young man murdered and his wife was the main suspect. She had an air tight alibi though and there was no evidence that she'd hired anyone to do it or that she'd been involved with anyone else at the time. I frown - there isn't much here to go on. That makes it a more exciting if I am successful.

"Sherlock." I look up to meet his eyes. "As a happily married man, trust me when I tell you, do not leave this for John. He won't be pleased."

I frown. "Perhaps, but he is the one who went on a trip. This will show him that I am dissatisfied with his decision."

He stares at me for another moment before nodding his head. "Okay, but don't say that I didn't warn you." He holds up his hands and turns around. "Call me if you figure something out."

"Naturally," I say as he leaves. I sit back on the couch and begin to read.


	4. Day 4

A/N – No dirty bits this relatively short chapter. But there can't be dirty bits in every chapter.

Day 4

I listen as the phone rings. John's voicemail picks up. I sigh and dial again. I glance back at the file and the laptop. I'm so close to wrapping up this case all I need is John to verify a few things for me.

Why isn't he answering his phone?

I get the voicemail again and am redialing when my phone rings. It's John.

"Is everything okay?" his sleepy voice comes through the phone. I wince, glancing at the clock. It's almost midnight in Las Vegas. I hadn't considered that. He has to be up early for the wedding. He's up now though, might as well get my answers.

"I need you to describe, in detail, the effects of syphilis if it goes untreated. What are the symptoms, order of progression, et cetera?"

"What?" John groans. I know that he is rolling over in bed, trying to wake up. "Why, do you think that you have syphilis?"

I roll my eyes. "Do keep up, John. You are speaking nonsense." Then the conversation yesterday about the priapism comes back to me. I roll my eyes again. "This is for a case." I don't point out that it's a twelve-year-old murder case. I don't think that he'll appreciate being awoken for something that could wait until he returns.

"Oh," he says, still trying to get his brain working. "Well, um…"

I need this information quickly. "I'll get directly to the point, could it make someone act irrationally?"

He's quiet for another moment, I hear the release of air that lets me know he's yawning. I suppose I can wait for him to get a proper amount of oxygen.

"In theory yes, but with modern medicine it never gets that far. It's treatable with penicillin."

"Henry VII had syphilis, correct?"

John's lost again but it's inconsequential as long as he can answer the questions.

"Yes, but he had syphilis when people could die from paper cuts…"

"So, if untreated, it could appear that there were mental deficiencies such as schizophrenia?"

"If the infection penetrates the brain, yeah. Why? What case is this?"

_Solved, _I think and bring up the train schedule. If I call Lestrade we can probably still make the next train to Birmingham. I almost end the call, but John doesn't like it when I ring off without offering the usual end of conversation pleasantries. And he's speaking again.

"…case about?" I glance at my watch as I pull my shoes on.

"I will happily provide you with all the details when you get home. I need to leave now though. I have a train to catch."

"Um, okay." He sounds disappointed. I feel momentarily victorious that he's missing me, too. "Be careful, call me later."

"I will. Go back to sleep." I ring off.

I grab my coat and head down the stairs. I'll call Lestrade from the cab.

2.

I have a bruise on my shoulder from where I slammed against the ground. It aches, but it was worth it. I just solved a twelve-year-old murder case.

I'm sitting on a bench while waiting on Lestrade to finish up with the forensic teams. It's interesting to watch them, they appear to be even less competent that Anderson. I didn't know that was possible.

I cross my legs and start doing some "people watching" as John calls it.

I realise that I still have to take a photo of myself in the jeans. Perhaps I'll take a picture of my ass, that is John's favourite thing about me in jeans. I wonder if Lestrade will take it for me. I imagine it will be awkward if I ask him. I'll work something out myself.

I pull my phone out just as it rings. I see John's picture on the screen. I notice the time and smile to myself. The wedding must just have ended. There is a reception being held afterwards but I'd expected John to take a minute to call me.

"Hello," I say noticing the man coming out of the coffee shop. He's in the UK illegally, from Eastern Europe, most likely Lithuania. He's buying coffee because he has a new baby at home and needs help staying up with the child.

"Hey," he replies. He sounds tired, lethargic. "I just wanted to see if you were all right."

"Fine," I reply, feeling a little euphoric. "I solved the case and am currently waiting on Lestrade. I hoped to make the train at 22:30 but I will have to take the later one."

"I'm glad you are safe, I can't wait to hear about it." He sounds sad again, ready to come home.

"How was the wedding?" I'm not particularly interested, but these are the kind of trivial questions John likes me to ask.

He sighs. "Nice. Actually a lot nicer than I thought it would be, not gaudy at all. Made me miss you though." I smile, glad to hear that. For once I'm glad for John's sentimental nature. Truthfully, I'm glad for his sentimental nature more often than I am not, a lot more often than I am willing to admit.

"Well, from where I am you'll be home in just over 24 hours."

"Lucky," he says, "It's longer than that from here. I've got some time to make up in the air tomorrow."

There is a pause, the conversation seems strained because of the distance. I don't like it, I'm glad he's coming home tomorrow. "So, who had syphilis?" he asks, grasping for something to talk about.

"Actually, it turns out that the syphilis wasn't a factor at all. However it did lead me to the correct suspect."

"Oh, I'm glad." I miss him suddenly. It's amazing to me, a few minutes ago I was satisfied and happy and now I'm aching for John again. This relationship has certainly added complications into my life. Things were easier before all these feelings.

And so much less interesting.

"Well," he says, "It looks like they've finished the pictures. We're going to eat now. I'll call you before I get on the plane. I miss you."

"I'll talk to you later." Lestrade is coming my way. He doesn't need to hear me express any sentiments towards my husband.

John chuckles, "Tell Lestrade I said hi. I'll talk to you later."

"Good-bye."

"Ready?" Lestrade asks. I nod.


	5. Day 5

A/N - Thanks to ScopesMonkey, love her! I hope you all enjoy it. This part is rated M, very, very, very M.

Day 5

I stretch as I walk into the flat. It is annoying that the paperwork for a cold case is more extensive than the paperwork for a regular case. Scotland Yard doesn't seem to be aware that I am doing them a favour by making them look less stupid.

I notice the slightly odd smell and look into the living room. I groan as I see the milk sitting on the coffee table. I'm going to have to make the flat presentable again before John returns. I want to shag my husband and that won't happen if the flat is a mess.

I was an idiot to make the mess in the first place.

I grab the container of milk and take it to the kitchen. It's going to have to be binned, along with the containers I was eating out of. Thankfully they aren't the good kind. Until John came into my life I was unaware that there were 'good' containers for storing food and 'throw away' containers for storing food. We'd added a third to that category: 'blood and hazardous materials'. They all have a red X on them to denote that it is acceptable for me to use them for storage. If I use one of the other containers I am immediately required to mark it with the X. John is adamant about this rule and breaking of it results in no sex.

I follow it religiously.

I put the silverware in the sink and add the containers to the bin. I can go to the store and buy a new group of the 'throw away' kind and John will be content that these have been binned. I add the mugs and tea cups to the sink. I will wash them later or perhaps ask Mrs. Hudson to wash them for me.

I groan again - she can't wash those for me, I'm going to need her to help me with the laundry. I grab the washing gloves from under the sink and the small mop-like implement that John uses for dishes. I clean them and set them on the plastic construction where drying dishes go. I remove the gloves and scrub my hands thoroughly.

I grab our blanket and leave it at the bottom of the stairs, I will add the rest of the laundry to it.

I sigh as the wave exhaustion overcomes me. I sit on the couch and create a list of the items I have left to do before John gets home. I should not have taken the cold case, it wasn't necessary for me to travel with Lestrade.

I look around the room, there are still piles of rubbish all over the place and that's not considering the mess I've left upstairs.

I am an idiot.

My phone rings and I grab it. I know it's John and I know what he's going to tell me.

"Were you asleep?" he asks.

"No."

"Get some sleep, Sherlock, I'd like you to be in the mood when I get home."

I laugh at that and realise I still haven't sent a picture of the jeans to John. I make a note to do it as soon as we are done here.

"You need not be concerned with that, Dr. Watson. I'm currently ensuring that circumstances in the flat are conducive to that as well."

"Cleaning up your mess then?" I can hear the smile in his voice. Of course he would know. He's John, it's not as easy for me to fool him as I like to think. "Just make sure all of the disgusting things are gone. I can live with the laundry basket over flowing."

"Overflowing" doesn't exactly mean blown up all over the floor. I'll still have Mrs. Hudson to help me with the laundry.

"Are you heading to the airport now?" I ask.

"Here already. I arrived early anticipating a long line at security. Shockingly there wasn't one, I didn't even get my balls fondled in one of those new security searches they do here. Complete let down, actually."

"You'll excuse me if I don't become too upset over strangers _not _fondling your balls." I smile, thinking of doing that activity myself.

He laughs at that. We sit in silence again, but it isn't the awkward silence from earlier. I'm anxious to see him again.

"Well, I'm going to let you go. I'm going to hit up the newsstand for a few magazines and some gum or something. I'll see you soon. I love you."

"I can't wait," I say. "I love you, too."

2.

I walk in the house after the longest cab ride of my life. It is so good to be home. It's late enough that the lights are off in Mrs. Hudson's flat. I'm glad that I can put off seeing her until tomorrow. I want to see Sherlock right now. And I mean _right_ now.

I carry my suitcase up the stairs, surprised that the door hasn't opened in front of me. I was actually a little surprised he wasn't at the airport. I dig my key out and open the door. The flat is dark, which also surprises me. It smells like pine, which means Sherlock has indeed been cleaning. It must have been bad for him not to just leave it.

I turn the hall light on and am greeted with two baskets of folded laundry sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson must have helped him with that because he doesn't know how to use the machine. He does know how to _break _the machine and has done so on a few occasions.

I step towards the kitchen and see him asleep face down on the couch. He's in pyjamas and has one arm hanging off the edge, resting on the floor, his face is turned to the living room. The window is open and it's cool inside the flat. I smile as I watch him for a moment.

Watching him sleep is a rare treat and I try to take advantage of it whenever I can. I won't savour it now though. It's been five days after all.

I kneel on the floor next to his head. I watch him for another second before I reach a hand out and run my fingers through his curls. He sighs, turning his head slightly to increase the contact. A contented smile crosses his features.

"Sherlock," I whisper and he stirs some more. He tries to snuggle deeper into the couch but the leather doesn't make that easy. It tends to stick to skin wherever it can.

"Sherlock," I repeat and the grey eyes slowly open. They focus on me a second and then close again. He stretches, those long lean muscles snapping as he increases the blood flow to them, and yawns. He opens his eyes again and meets mine.

"You're home," he says and grins at me.

"I am," I say and lean forward. He lifts his head and I move my hand around to cup his jaw. Our lips meet, it's easy and gentle. He opens his mouth to the pressure of my tongue and I dip in to taste him. I pull back and he does the same to me. It's a slow dance, but one that is beautifully familiar.

I try to pull back, but he holds my lower lip between his teeth. He bites and it feels heavenly. He pulls just a fraction before releasing me.

"I missed you," he says.

I smile at him. The moments of sincere emotions are becoming more frequent, but I still make it a point to enjoy each one. I know that I'm the only one who ever gets to see them.

"I missed you, too," I say. I don't think I realised how much until I got home. It's like the presence of him is filling up holes I didn't know had formed.

"Good," he says. "I hope you were miserable." He rolls onto his back and reaches out to pull on my arm. He wants me to climb on to the couch with him, on top of him. I happily comply. "If you were miserable then maybe you won't be so eager to leave me behind next time."

I settle my weight on his chest, propping myself up on my elbows. I press my arms down, causing him to wince. "I suggested you come with me on numerous occasions. You're the one who stayed home."

He sighs and rolls his eyes. "You know, John, it's really distasteful when you choose to focus on the facts instead of what I tell you."

I laugh placing a kiss on his chin, the stubble is rough against my lips. "Sorry I follow the facts, my husband has taught me that everybody lies - except him of course."

He sighs again and his hands trace down my sides. I suppress my body's urge to shiver but the muscles all across my back contract at the contact. His fingers are warm through the cotton of my shirt and feel like fire when the settle on the small of my back.

"Your husband lies all the time," he says and he starts tracing his fingers up my spine. I can't suppress the shiver this time. "Just not to you," he clarifies as his fingers move between my shoulder blades. The muscles in my neck relax and I let my head fall forward as he moves his fingers back down.

It's the barest of touches, but causes an unbelievable reaction. When he traces past my belt and between my cheeks my hips push forward. I'm still fully clothed and barely have the beginnings of an erection and he is already causing involuntary movements.

Thankfully, I can do the same. I shift up his body and feel a kiss on my forehead before lowering my head to his neck. I feel the stubble against my cheek as he moves his head to the side giving me better access. I know he expects me to start at his ear and move down, but instead I move right to the sweet spot.

I exhale against the spot where neck meets shoulder and he tenses underneath me. I close my lips around it and begin to suck. He groans and I am certain that I'm going to leave a mark. One of his hands settles on my hip trying to hold my lower body in place and the other one settles in my hair. I need a haircut because it's long enough for him to get a sure grip. It hurts as he pulls.

His whole body arches up into me as I use my teeth to squeeze the spot. His heart is pounding against my chest as he gasps. I drag my thigh between his legs, brushing his hardening member. His hips move, pushing up against me, and his hand settles on the small of my back.

"John," he exhales as his hips push against me again.

He can come like this, with me sucking on his neck while he grinds against my thigh. I experimented with it once and he was barely erect before he was screaming out with something akin to agony. I'd been naked then and amazed as the hot liquid squirted against my leg.

The memory sends a jolt through me and I moan against his skin. I drag my thigh against him, pushing up slightly in the same instant I pull on his skin with my teeth. He manages an "oh god" before his arching body lifts me off the couch. He's so tense I think he might be coming. I lower my thigh, as he grunts out my name again. He tightens the grip in my hair and pulls my head up. I prop up so that I can look at him.

He's flushed and gasping in short quick breaths. There are teeth marks on his lower lip. His fingers press on my lower back and a moment later both hands are grabbing at my shirt. "Off," he says. "Now. Get it off."

I lean down and he shoves his tongue into my mouth. I open to him, giving him unhampered access. His tongue presses against my palate and he whimpers. It vibrates all the way down my chest and settles in my stomach. As I touch his tongue with mine his hands stop moving on my shirt. He moans again, angling his head. My thigh drags against him and he tenses again, staggering two awkward thrusts against me. One of his hands clamps down on my thigh. It's a warning. I lift my thigh and move to straddle him. With my knee on the edge of the couch I sit up, breaking away from our kiss. He frowns but his hands start pulling on my shirt again. He frees it from my jeans and a second later his bony fingers are dipping beneath the waistband.

I reach between us and grab his t-shirt. I push it up his chest, dragging my knuckles against him as I do. "Up," I say and he growls. He brings his arms around and I quickly pull it off, tossing it away. I grab the bottom of my shirt and pull it off. Sherlock immediately begins to work on my belt.

He's fumbling, I can tell. I move my hand up and trace my index fingers across his nipples. I squeeze them, pulling them gently.

"Unh," his eyes flutter closed and his fingers stop moving. He snaps them open immediately and glares up at me. His fingers are still struggling. "GET THIS OFF," he orders. I laugh and push his fingers away. I work on my belt and his shaking fingers grab my shoulder pulling me towards him again.

We kiss as I manage to get my belt undone. I toss it aside, planting my foot on the floor so that I can lift off Sherlock. He whines as I break the kiss and grabs at me as I stand.

"Where-" he starts, but stops when I grab the waist band of his pyjama bottoms and start to pull them down. "Oh," he says lifting his hips, "brilliant."

I toss them aside as Sherlock sits up and starts to work on my zip. I tangle my fingers with his, each of us making it harder for the other. It takes longer than necessary to get the zip down, but a second later he pushes his hand into the opening and palms me. I have to grab the back of the couch as long fingers move down pushing my balls forward. I moan as my head tips back.

His voice sounds far away when he speaks. "You aren't wearing underwear, John." It's throaty, deeper than usual, and it shoots right up my spine. I push forward into his hand, moaning at the increase in pressure. "God I love that." He rolls the 'g' in the back of his throat. I push forward again and he traces his thumb over the head. I feel myself twitch in his grip and he squeezes me before pulling his hand out. We both grab at my waistband pushing the jeans down.

I move to kick them away as Sherlock turns and starts digging in the couch cushions. A moment later two containers drop on the cushion between his legs, his hands dig in again and two more appear. He holds them up quickly reading off the information, "We have raspberry, pear, apple cinnamon, and vanilla."

I pause for a moment, astonished. There were four containers of lube buried in our couch cushions? My sister has sat on this couch.

"Apple cinnamon," I say and he tosses the other three aside. He scoots back, making room for me to lie in front of him. He pats the sofa before he flips the container open with his thumb. "Down, John." I smile as I settle on my back.

I plant one foot on the floor, pushing it as far out as I can. He lubes up his fingers then grabs my other leg, bends it, and puts my foot on his chest. I can feel his heart pounding against my arch. It makes my toes curl.

Our eyes lock as his long index finger begins to trace the sensitive hole. The smell of the lube reaches my nostrils. It isn't as strong as the regular cinnamon scented one he prefers, but it is still most definitely a Sherlock scent.

He pushes lightly and I let my eyes close. I take his index finger easily and the knuckle feels amazing as it moves in and out. He adds as second finger and I arch as he crooks them against my prostate. "Oh Sherlock," I hear myself say as my toes curl against his nipple. He moans in response and I feel it vibrate up my leg.

He adds a third finger, scissoring them inside of me. I push back against them, the tension in my pelvis pleasant and familiar. Now, now would be good. He removes his fingers and I open my eyes to see him drop the lube onto my stomach. The plastic bottle is cool on my abs.

I feel his fingers on the back of my leg that is planted on the floor. I let him bring the leg up and he rests it against him. I can feel his chest pressing against my calf. He straightens my other leg so they are symmetrical, my ankles resting next to his ears. I grab the lube and coat my hands. I reach out and rub it all over him. He groans, turning to plant a kiss into my left ankle. He darts his tongue against the bone and it causes goose bumps up to my knee.

He thrusts forward as I stretch my hand holding both of us. I line up the heads, moving my slicked up thumb easily over both of them. His weight presses into my legs as I mix the liquids leaking out of both of us. My own breath quickens at the sight. We are fairly close in size, he's a little longer and leaner and I have more girth, my head larger and more prominent.. They - we - complement each other very well.

I bring my finger up and suck on my knuckle where we are both mixed with the lube. He moans at the sight and reaches for my hand. He brings my thumb to his lips, sucking it clean, his tongue rough against the soft pad. I feel myself twitch at the sight, a grunt erupting from my chest. Now would be good.

"Good," I say and settle back. He kisses my knuckles before releasing my hand. He places another kiss into my ankle before he leans forward, lifting my hips as he does so. He reaches down and lines himself up before he slowly pushes into me. We moan together as I adjust around him. He's hot and I am tight around him, I feel full of him. He closes his eyes and savours it for a moment. He feels wonderful.

He puts his hands under my cheeks and lifts them up just a fraction more. When he pulls out his swollen head drags against my prostate. I thrust towards him and feel my insides tighten in response. "Oh god," I say reaching between us to grab myself. "So good."

He grunts a response as he pulls back and enters again. I moan, the pressure is milking the precum out of me.

He settles into an easy rhythm, pushing some of his weight against my legs. I feel the pressure in my hamstrings, heightening the others sensations. I bring my other hand up and press into my pelvis. My legs start to shakes as he presses against me again. "John," he says. I look up at him. His eyes are closed a look of bliss on his face, his lips slightly parted as he breathes through them. He's beautiful.

His eyes open and lock with mine, they are desperate, wanting. He wants me, this beautiful man always wants me. I speed up on my cock, my head presses into the cushion and my back arches off the couch. Sherlock is talking to me, but his voice is quiet and far away. The constant stream of incoherence leaving my throat is drowning him out. I can feel it though, the vibrations in his chest as they move through my legs. I can feel every word.

"Oh god," I hear myself say as the tightening begins. He puts more weight into my legs, raising my hips and increasing the angle. Everything in my lower body feels like it's collapsing in on itself. "Oh god, Sherlock, oh god." I feel my balls rise and a moment later I hear myself wail. Sherlock stops moving inside of me, filling me as I release all over my fingers. It's not too sensitive yet, a rare feat, so I pull some more, drawing more and more out of me. I arch up more as the liquid hits my abdomen, still pulling. So good, it feels so good.

"Sherlock," I wail again and then suddenly I am done. I cringe as I drag my fingers over the head, too sensitive now to touch. My whole body twitches as I let go, reaching out for anything, any part of him to hold. I land on his forearm and squeeze it. He kisses my ankle again as the tension leaves me. My body sinks back into the couch, the leather suddenly cool against my skin.

He lets my hips drop and stays still. I open my eyes to look at him. He grabs my hand and brings it up to his mouth. He starts to lick it clean, not satisfied from earlier. I groan and close my eyes again. I slide my legs off his shoulders and settle them on his hips, opening my eyes again. He looks feral as he meets my eyes and leans forward in the new position. He kisses me and I taste myself on him, myself and apple cinnamon and Sherlock. He moans into my mouth as he starts to move again. I dig my heels into his ass and he pulls out of the kiss.

"You're killing me, John," he says and he buries his face in my neck. I smile, planting a kiss into his curls. I time my thrusts with his, arching up to meet him. I bring my hands down and settle them on his ass. I squeeze the cheeks. Then I pull on them, stretching them apart. He groans and his rhythm sputters. I place a kiss against his ear as I hear him gasp in a breath. I keep the cheeks separated and dance my index finger across his entrance.

"Shit," he says, speeding up. I can feel the tension in his ass as his body thrusts into me. It's getting tighter and tighter in him. He's so close.

"Sherlock," I whisper his name into his ear. He groans and the hips stutter again. He likes it when I say his name. I can't reach the lube so I can't penetrate him very far, but as he pulls out I let the tip of my finger enter him.

He gasps and his body pushes forward almost violently. He's mumbling incoherent things as he pulls back and thrusts forward again. I hear my name among his murmured string of words as buries his face deeper, pressing his forehead against my jaw.

He pulls back and thrust forward, harder. He keens as he starts to shoot into me, whining as his muscles try to force him deeper. The muscles release quickly only to seize up again as his final thrust clears him out. His whole body shakes for a few seconds before his weight completely collapses on top of me.

"Oh," he says after several long minutes. I chuckle dragging my fingers up his back as I kiss above his ear.

"Look what happens when I go away for five days," I whisper and he starts to shake his head.

"Not worth it," he says. "Brilliant, but not worth it."

I smile against his temple. "I missed you, too," I say. "So much."

He nods and we are silent for a long time. I'd think he was asleep if his still quickened breathing didn't give him away. I trace absent patterns across his back, occasionally writing my name and feeling him smile against my skin.

Then suddenly he's standing up. I watch his naked form walk into the hall, his cute ass almost glowing in the moonlight. The view as he walks back is nice too, his flaccid member moving gently from side to side with each step. He smiles knowingly at me when he catches me looking, but I'm not ashamed. We both know nothing else will happen for a while.

He's dragging the blanket from the laundry baskets with him. He settles back on top of me and covers us with that. He rests his head on my shoulder and lets out an exhausted sigh. Most mornings I wake up with my husband strewn all over me, but to fall asleep that way is a rare treat. I wrap my arms around him and hug.

"When we get up in the morning can I have my present?"

"What makes you think I got you a present?" I ask him, even though I did. He just shrugs settling deeper into me.

"You're my John. I know." I smile at that and nod, answering his question. He lets out a contented sigh. "And I'd like to see the new suit in person, please?" I close my eyes, feeling sleep pressing in on me.

"I might require something in return for that," I say. He chuckles pressing a kiss against my neck.

"Anything that you want. Anything at all." I don't respond because sleep is winning the battle, but I can't wait to collect on that.


End file.
